


The Johnlock Etudes

by Phare



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock (TV) RPF, Sherlock BBC, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe, Arthur Conan Doyle Canon References, Gay Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-02
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-07-19 13:08:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 10,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7362631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phare/pseuds/Phare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Various stories and vignettes about Sherlock and John; Hamish Watson Holmes, headcanons, new characters, A(lternate) U(niverse). Disclaimer: I do not own the characters and they are not my intellectual property. There is no financial gain made from this nor will any be sought. This is for entertainment purposes only.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Softly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One foggy night Sherlock follows John to a jazz bar

“John, I…”

Late, so late. On the sidewalk, crossing spot-light after spot-light (street lamps) his shouldered figure, in the soft stripes of his jumper. Hands in jeans’ pockets. His steps, slow, sure. A scene Sherlock could admire forever as he followed John quietly from afar, as just another angular shadow in the bitter fog. His lips parted as he tried out the words he so wished to say. Their power startled him, the fuzzy gut kick they delivered to an organ whose existence Sherlock himself doubted.

Dark store windows, dumb mannequins, pans, magazines, flashing neon OPEN. Of course it would be open - the best jazz begins after midnight. Sherlock’s hand rested on the handle’s wet condensation. He had seen John go inside a minute ago, yet all this could be a three-patch-induced hallucination.. Then the door closed behind him like a sigh and he realized he had crossed the precipice. Panic.

He was not seen, a relieved Sherlock ran his hand through his moist curls, and slid in the velvet-wallpapered corner. Indeed, the band was swinging the blues. John was sitting at the big table, alone, his scarf half-untied, one arm across the back of the chair, soft, blonde hair like a beacon. His face, barely lit, submerged in the languid tune, caressed by a suggestive swing brush. Another rush of this panic, this ungodly rush of blood. Which Sherlock stifled like Mycroft’s pathetic attempts at a joke. He took out his phone and began texting.

Then stopped. Erased. Pulled out Contacts. And dialed.

“I love you” 

John knew Sherlock’s soft baritone from the way he took a breath before even saying a word:

“I love you” 

As the melody swung gently, John looked up and saw Sherlock by the door, and in the stabbingly sweet pain that drowned his thoughts, he licked his lips and smiled.

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters and they are not my intellectual property. There is no financial gain made from this nor will any be sought. This is for entertainment purposes only.


	2. The Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first time Sherlock and John share a kiss.

The kiss  
“You didn’t get milk then?..” asked a disappointed John, lifting his head from “The Ten Commandments of Attracting Blog Traffic”. Sherlock’s overarching frame filled the doorway, his coat loosely draped over his shoulders. “No. Obviously. I thought of something”. His blue eyes pierced into John’s smirk and melted it. Tension filled the deafening silence, as dust specks illuminated in the low evening light hovered around the teapot. “Oh, yeah?.” muttered John and licked his lips. Just in time, as Sherlock reached his chair in two steps, his coat’s sleeves swinging by his side, and kneeled, his face stopping inches from John’s. “Yes. Actually, it has been on my mind for a while. I must kiss you now”. 

His soft, black curls caressed John’s forehead as their lips melted together. The universe shrank into itself and the Ten Commandments fell with a thud, released from John’s grasp. Sherlock gently caressed his chin and drank his lower lip. A petrified John sat unmoving. 

Then it hit him like a passing train and he stood up, shattering their kiss into million pieces. “What do you think you are doing?! How dare you?!” Sherlock grasped his arm with a steel hold, and pulled him so close that their lips were almost touching again. “I can feel the temperature of your body. Your pupils. Your breath”, he spoke into John’s anger. “I’ve deduced all I have to know. The rest is taking an action”. With a force unknown to him John tore himself away, his eyes forced upon the thinning carpet. “How dare you, you fucking dick?!”

Sherlock took a step back, in a defense he didn’t plan on. John’s warm, brown eyes, now piercing him underneath his crushed brow fastened the invisible chain around his neck. Sherlock took a confused, shallow breath. “You are not happy?..” “Not happy?!? Not! Happy?!.. John chewed. In a step he was holding him by the collar of his coat “A bit not happy.” He finished the kiss with a bite. 

The last evening light gone, the room turned a cold blue in a blink. Thin streak of blood colored Sherlock’s lips. “Not happy it took you as long as it did” John whispered, tired, crushed, resting his burning forehead on Sherlock’s cheek. He felt the faint smile through his skin. “Does that, in fact then, mean…” he muttered, feeling John’s fingers within his, and quietly stepped towards the bedroom. 


	3. That first time...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John attempt a very particular something for the first time.

”John. I trust you know what you’re doing..”

”Of course I don’t.. But we cannot go on like this anymore, Sherlock!.. One of us must at least… attempt…”

”I understand..Yet..You must know I’m completely..out of my depth here.”

”Good! You’re joking!..That would make it easier”

”Easier? You mean less painful?..Well. Then. If we - must- .”

”We most certainly do. Now, if I lie on m back it would probably be best..and you..hrhghrghrr…just follow my lead and try not to get distracted..”

”If my doctor orders it.”

“Good. Now.,Give it to me…No! Here! In my hand!”

”..This is..awkward..”

”Great deduction. Sherlock. I need you here though! So focus!”

”..Not quite sure I can take this much longer..”

”No, no, stay with me, for God’s sake! We’re in this together!…It’s our..”

”Obviously.. you have..experience with this?…”

”Not a lot..I’ve tried on my own a couple of times and it has worked, but with you here..”

”Are you sure you’re keeping it upright? Is it supposed to fit..like that?”

“I’ll just hold it in with my thumb..maybe..I think it helps!..Now…Oh, good God!!!”

“No. Not really helping, is it?!!!! John!..How much wetter will this get?”

“Sherlock! God!..I can’t hold it in!..The pressure!! It’s..It’s going everywhere!!!”

“Well, now the carpet is soaked. Call the plumber next time. I’m sure he’ll know to close the water valve before starting to work on a sink of any kind.”


	4. Chaconne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pre-relationship, middle of The Reichenbach Fall: Moriarty has left. John comes home, and listens to Sherlock playing the Chaconne.

John would never forget it. That haunting counterpoint, the intervals pulled apart by a force within, melodies intertwining their unspoken desires, pleas, arguments; tenderly reconciling and denying each other a moment later. Fast, wild, desperate, breathless, running into each other’s realms, yet never reaching a release, the satisfaction of colliding. Every time they came close together, something spun them yet further apart. And in the center of the storm there were clear blue skies, a simple anthem, innocent, hopeful and obliviously pastoral; a relief that was never meant to last. Then the tempo picking up, Sherlock’s bow biting the strings, ruthlessly delivering the arrival at the gates of Heaven, where the grace of a benevolent god warmed John’s face with the light of unmentionable love; where a rapture so deep, so high would seize him, tears would cloud his sight. Surely, this bliss is a real place, he would think, not meant to last, for nothing as beautiful and all-encompassing could survive a long time on this Earth. The tessitura dropping down several octaves into a chromatic pedal point, tugging all sadness out of its layer within John’s chest. The runs, ruthlessly slamming back into the opening theme, as if to signify that this trip to Elysium never really happened. As if nothing in the world had changed. When Sherlock stroke the final unison John sobbed with a cry into his hands, full of want, of wish, of never, of pain, of all that made him the sick human he was born into.

When Sherlock played all else lost meaning. When John listened all else ceased to exist. Within, and only within the music they met and parted.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1xhCdyQ_8Wg


	5. Hamish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introducing Hamish Watson Holmes, daughter of John and Mary, raised at Baker Street by Sherlock and John, with a little help from their friends. John admits his feelings for Sherlock for the first time.

“I will cut you!!”

Sherlock turned around too late, only to hear the patter of steps heading upstairs. “Quite honestly, John. Hamish is becoming more and more her own person recently..” he said, turning away from the window and lifting an eyebrow. “She’s taken a hold of the letter opener. Are you concerned with the probable consequences?” John didn’t reply. He kept staring at the fire, his tea untouched, his legs crossed. An unusually cold December evening had produced a confused flutter of virginal snow, covering the streets of London. 

“Sherlock, Sherlock!!” Hamish ran into him, her arms spread out, one glove on, one dangling on a rubber band from her coat’s sleeve (”God is my witness, this is the last pair of gloves I’m buying!” John had murmured yesterday, as he sew them to the lining with a particularly unsuccessful angry backstitch) “Can I go outside and play??” He looked into her excited face, her striking blue eyes, the pale blond curl stuck to her sweaty forehead and with an expert gesture wiped away the bugger crawling down her nose with the first cloth he found close (the embroidered napkin Mrs. Hudson always tucked in the tea tray). “Give it back.” Unwilling Hamish placed the letter opener in his open hand. Sherlock swiftly put his chullo over the sweaty curl and followed her frantic run to the door with a soft, curious smile. So much of Mary in her, he thought, something about nature/nurture, maybe, if you’d care about such nonsense. John’s soft sob made him look up. 

Sherlock was always uncomfortable with tears. Hamish’s first three years were a grizzly battle for him, a battle he fought with incessant diaper changes, force feedings and a whole opus of children songs he composed in order to avoid singing to her. While killing for John was something he could brave the consequences of any day, he recently realized his greatest vow to him was upheld each and every hour he helped him raise Hamish. Yet, all the grueling months, all six years full of them, had taught him nothing of how to comfort a human being whose guard had crumbled. “John..John? Er..“ he oscillated a bit between the kitchen table and the fireplace. Finally, with an awkward sigh, he kneeled by his best friend. 

“It’s been six years now, Sherlock. Six years in two weeks.. Hamish asked me yesterday, you know, she said, how did the angels know how to find mamma to take her? Do I think she told them to wait, so she can be with her for a bit longer?…” the stone he held in his chest muffled his voice. “She will have to be told the truth, sooner or later, John. You..we cannot keep it hidden forever.” “I know, I know..” John stirred and held him by the shoulder, wetting his dressing gown. “There is only one thing that truly kills me, Sherlock.” “Well, I am glad to hear it’s only one” Sherlock tried at a joke. As usual, it fell crashing onto the floor, but John was not himself, and not able to pick it up, to make it better. 

“All this time, all these years, since Mary… You know, I wasn’t really honest with you about it..as I should have..You did so much for me.. You and Mrs. Hudson..Molly, Greg…Mycroft when the school thing happened…But you, you took me here..With Hamish.. with a baby, in this..lab of a flat.. I really didn’t think you could..” John had turned away, Sherlock only observed a part of his face, lined with gold by the fire. Another tear rolled on his cheek and a hardly perceptible rainbow sparkled, then disappeared. “Yet, here you are, years later.. Still standing, still you… you love her as I feared you never would” “Don’t use such heavy words, John. You are well aware of my sentiments about sentiment” Sherlock replied, overtaken with a sudden feeling that something horrifying was about to happen. “Hamish is your daughter..She’s a sprightly, young thing, and now that she is potty-trained, she can be..not as annoying, even a little…enjoyable?” John interrupted him: “For the love of God…” and stood up. Sherlock followed his path across the room. “While I am touched by your gratitude, John, I vowed to never let you down, and as your best friend, it was my desire to do so. There was really nothing else to do, but to have you both with Hamish here. It is my honor.”

John touched the wall, where he knew Sherlock had the wallpaper repaired from the gun holes. “It is more than that”. He picked up a rag doll, a plastic gun, a volumetric flask full of glitter, and spatula from underneath the table. “And I cannot deny it in any longer”. John dropped her toys in the basket by the door. “After Mary…a part of me died..and a part stayed for Hamish” he stopped in front of sherlock and met his calm, blue eyes, slightly slanted with curiosity. “You kept me right. You keep me right. You never wavered..as I did.. Because, in it all, in all my love for her, in the middle, it was…you”

Sherlock stepped back. “I denied it, rejected it, I was ashamed to even feel it, I buried it deep as I vowed to love her till death do us part. I believed it was affection, the warmth of friendship..” John placed his hand on Sherlock’s chest, and slowly lowered his head to it, almost hiding away from meeting his best friend’s eyes. “But tonight, it cannot be more obvious to me..” he swallowed so heavily, even Sherlock felt it. “I love you, Sherlock Holmes, and even if you chose to walk away from this love, I can be at peace now that I have at least..tried..” his body went limp as his knees gave in, and he softly fell to the floor. 

Sherlock heard the children’s laughter outside, and the snow’s high-pitched blue light in the dusk reminded him of something. He opened the window and threw out “Hamish! Ice cream!”. “Just five more minutes!!” reparteed a bell voice. “Five third dimension minutes!” he knew what she was trying to get at. “Ooohhh…K!”. Another snow flurry dusted the windowsill. 

“It has always been you” he said. Then Sherlock took John’s face in his hands and kissed his wet, salty lips. John looked at him puzzled, unbelieving. “I was never going to be the one to stand between you and Mary, even if I don’t believe in marriage. It wasn’t my journey to make, it was yours.” Sherlock spoke softly, his deep baritone now even lower, wider, warmer, all encompassing, saying words John never hoped to hear. “For the truth is, I have been here, waiting for you. Waiting for you to catch up in your own terms. And I have what I believe is love for you, if you would take it.” “If I would…” his reply drowned in another kiss. 

When Hamish arrived at the flat, covered in snow, ice and slush like a proper London yeti, her chullo’s strings tied in a knot and the hat itself dangling on her back, her boots leaving water marks at the doorway, she observed a strange scene. Sherlock and her father had exchanged chairs, and were drinking tea, without saying a word, in complete and unusual silence. “The fire’s out!” she chirped. “I guess it’s bath time.” Sherlock lifted an eyebrow. “I’ll take it, if you throw more wood in the fireplace” said John as he put his cup down. “Not a chance.”


	6. Bedtime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John reads a bedtime story to Hamish. Sherlock observes.

Sherlock stopped by the open door, and leaned against the frame. It was a while since he had stopped hearing John’s tender, monotonous narration. “..sat down in the hall and put his head in his hands…and wondered what had..happened…and what was going…to happen….happen..and whether……..” Sherlock assumed Hamish had fallen asleep on his chest again and being the sucker he was, John wouldn’t move until he was absolutely sure she was in her first REM cycle. Then he would gracefully slip away from her limp embrace, tucking little Maya, the bee, in his place. Sometimes Sherlock would stop by her bedroom to check on the reading pair, and having found Hamish passed out and John - her captive, they would have a complete conversation across the room without saying a single word. 

He found them both sound asleep. Little lamp fish were swimming across the room and passing their limp bodies like ghostly incantations. Hamish was really into ocean things right now, asking to be taken to Sea Life every other day and always returning with one more stuffed shark, or a coloring book, or a grow-your-own-reef kit. John, being on public places duty, rarely did not give in to her curiosity. “Good thing she hasn’t seen all the dead ones in the freezer yet..” Sherlock thought as he imagined her horrified shouts. Like the time she saw a pigeon by the gutter, half-pureed by traffic. She had cried through screams for half an hour, and had refused to talk to people (”Humans are monsters!!”) for a week. 

John had his arm around her, and her head was resting on his chest at a weird angle. At six, she was still full of rubber and could probably sleep all night upside down without getting even a neck cramp…The little acrobat. Her disheveled curls of gold were bookmarking The Hobbit. Squinting a little, Sherlock saw John’s fingers holding the page he was about the turn before he drifted off - a little habit Sherlock found endearing, although he would never admit it out loud or even in silence inside his head. For a fleeting second he wished he was an artist, a painter, or at least someone who held their phone in their hand at all times, so he could capture this picture of painfully acute happiness. He inhaled it, dissected it, understood it, and found a room for it in his mind palace. 

With a sudden breath, John opened his eyes and blinked several times, figuring out where he was. 

–John– Oh, hi, Sherlock! I must have..dozed off. Was I out a long time?–Just enough–It was such a long day at the clinic, and then all of this running around to find the other half of the ripped letter..Thank God Mrs. Hudson stayed with the Cracken..–Well, I solved the case, just came to tell you–You did?! Of course you did–Of course I did, it was simple, really. Dinner?–Absolutely. Pass me Maya, please.–

Not a word was said out loud. Sherlock took the bee to John as he was slipping underneath Hamish, and in a burst of sentiment he would later calmly deny, he took John’s hand to his face and kissed the warm palm, breathing it in. –I got Chinese–Perfect.


	7. Going on

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After their third time, John ponders where their relationship is going.

John sat up on the coach, and nervously began buttoning his shirt. He recognized the stabbing doubt crawling on the reverse side of his skin. Here, once again, pondering the reasons for this guilt, and once again, finding out that, like the many-headed hydra, all strands began at the same body. At least he wouldn’t have to make conversation about it…If he chooses to view it as an advantage.. ‘Third time now, John. Three. Times.’ he thought and took a deep breath, ready to sigh the sigh of all heavy things in the world. Instead, he exhaled quietly, slowly, deliberately, making sure he wasn’t heard. 

He turned around as his partner stirred, and muffled with all his mighty effort the desire to remove the shiny tousled curls away from Sherlock’s forehead. Their eyes met, as they had minutes ago, but the hurricane of dialogue had ceased. The silence deafened John, amalgamating his lips together, his questions on the tip of his tongue, chained with iron. The cool blue gaze was calm and unmoved, covering with quiet ripples the shipwreck underneath. Bodies strewn all over, covered in sand and black-grey sky. 

Sherlock extended a slender, white arm and fumbled the side table for his cigarettes, with the risk of bringing Mrs. Hudson upstairs to scold him. A true Baskerville hound, she was. The smoke wrapped tightly around John. He tried to pretend he disliked it, but Sherlock knew the bluff the same way he knew what John craved before the thought had even manifested in his endorphin-foggy brain. So he let it penetrate his clothes, his hair, his skin and his heart, where he hoped it would linger until the world burned to ashes. 

Leaning in, John rested his head in his hands, as he was at the precipice, inside a whirlwind of questions smelling of tobacco, purple silk and a bit of formaldehyde. He would turn around and ask, and Sherlock would answer, this time. They would figure out where they were heading. Sherlock would mock him gently, John would repartee, they could even laugh. Together. Maybe then John would put the kettle on. Wouldn’t that be a wondrous thing? 

His gut prompted otherwise. The alarm such picture invoked surprised him, as the hydra fell into a pool of its own blood and suffocated. He turned sharply to Sherlock, his eyebrows furrowed, his lips rounded by a sharp inhale: “I…cannot domesticate you” 

“Don’t flatter yourself.” murmured Sherlock, as he was putting out his cigarette. Then he caressed John’s cheek, maybe as a friend or even as a lover, and pulled him in for a bitter-tasting kiss.


	8. The Itch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock in a park at night, sneaking a cigarette. Prompt "Itchy Sherlock" by a tumblr Friday Fanfic request by my-mind-palace-blog.

Lurking behind a neat group of feebly linden trees, Sherlock slowly exhaled the first draw from his first cigarette in 31 days. The smoke caressed his lips and ascended with a satisfied blue scribble. A warm spring dusk lingered in the branches, smelling of dirt and earth, and seven kinds of pollen, lulled by conversations and children playing hide and seek. How delightful, the rush of blood through his body, as the nicotine excited his heart and his limbs, almost like when John… 

A large ball bounced against his knees, and a demon child followed it with a shriek. Sherlock coughed and threw a quick surveying look around. Hamish and John had gone home for her evening bath just ten minutes ago. He stepped back into the ever growing shadows. Just in case. 

Another drag, as the firefly of his cigarette was pulsating between his fingers, and Sherlock was already feeling a familiar itch crawling his spine. That feeling he got when he was around people, especially groups of them. Somehow he hoped they would have left the park by now, being dark and all. Didn’t they have dinners to eat, affairs to cheat, night shifts to start? Why were so many of them lingering here, when all he wanted was a quiet place to smoke?! There, that one, the blonde who obviously had too much to drink and was about to dial her ex. Pathetic. The two boys by the benches with some pot in their backpacks. Not a bad idea. The man in the grey suit intensely following the man in the trench coat, as if Sherlock couldn’t tell they were about to get it on behind the alley. The teenage girl with too much perfume on, going to a birthday party. All of them talking about their boring lives out loud or with their bodies, and their walking, and their breathing. The itch intensified. His palms stared to sweat. The need to scream at them, as if he could disperse their presence with the power of his animosity. Maybe he could shoot in the air and enjoy the five quiet minutes alone before the police arrived. His cigarette died inside its paper column. Sherlock shook his headful of curls, trying to chase away the voices grating on his brain. 

“Sherlock? Have you been smoking?!” A wave of cool wind touched his forehead. Sherlock squinted and focused the figure of one John Watson against the park lamps. The stars came out to chart the path between them “For the love of God, you promised!” his angry tone soothed Sherlock like that lavender-stuffed bunny Molly had given Hamish to help with her teething. Unable to utter a word about the eternal silence that had overtaken him, Sherlock somnambulated into John with such a deep sigh of relief that he was granted the forgiveness of love that knows all and forgives all. John softly wrapped his arms around him, and kissed his ear. “Come. Mrs. Hudson has a date tonight, so she won’t be able to keep an eye on Hamish for much longer.” Sherlock snickered “I know. By the look of his car, he’ll ask her to move with him to New York very soon.” 

The two men slowly passed the iron gates. A tiny lizard followed them with his glass eyes. “If I ever catch you smoking again, I’ll bring you here and cuff you to a park bench for the whole day and night.” “Can you be so cruel.” “Do not attempt to find out.”


	9. How Babies Are Made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock discourses with an angry parent while waiting outside Hamish's preschool.

Sherlock rolled his shoulders back and squinted: “No, not really. She hasn’t done anything wrong.”

“What am I supposed to say to my son now?! Until yesterday he believed babies are brought by the stork! Then your daughter told him and the entire preschool group about the ovum and the sperm, and ovaries and zygotes! She used the word ‘intercourse’! And ‘uterus’!” the scorned father’s voice had risen to an angry hiss. “Uterus!!! Now I need to explain what ‘uterus’ is! To top it off, he has started calling me a liar!” Sherlock felt the disapproving glances of the other parents warming the back of his coat. He often picked up Hamish after kindergarten, and deplored the adults whose noxious thoughts deafened him. “They don’t even know what any of these words mean!!!” 

“Well, you are a liar. Babies are not brought by a stork. Even you must be aware of that” Sherlock stated calmly while eyeing the front door. Hamish would be out any moment, hungry and probably covered in sand that she would sprinkle on his suit. Yet this man, umm, Josh? James? Jaimie? whatever his name was, insisted on the offense. 

“How dare you call me a liar?! I’m the father of a six-year-old boy with an over-active imagination! He’s too young to be hearing about physiology! And!! And!! ‘Intercourse’!!!” The school bell drowned his indignation while flocks of thunderous children spilled onto the street in search of their grownup pets. Like a golden-haired Botticelli muse, Hamish was easy to spot in the middle of a revolving ring of forest spirits and graces. She waved at him and elbowing her way through, ran into his hug. Sherlock inhaled the evidence of watercolors on her hands. The despondent dad kept up the assault, unaware of the non-existent amount of fucks that Sherlock was giving about his predicament. “You must address this..incident!!”

Sherlock looked his tiny beast in the eye. “I understand you’ve explained human reproduction to Mr…. whoever’s son, Hamish.” Her head of rumpled curls nodded energetically. “I want you to know that I am proud of you for telling the truth and for spreading it among the ignorant population. Britain needs more girls like you, Hamish. Now wipe your nose. No, not with your sleeve - John will kill me, then he’ll make me wash it. Here’s some tissue.” he zipped Hamish’s jacket and while basking in the the atomic radiation following his steps, headed to Baker Street.


	10. Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is asked about his wife at a dinner party.

“And does your wife travel with you, John?” 

Dinner parties surely are the tenth circle of Hell, John thought, and turned a polite smile: “No.”

“Oh! You are not married then?”

His heart constricted in a vise whose existence he had forgotten: “No.”

“Interesting..Somehow I understood you are married..”

“The salmon tastes delicious!” John presented forward, while he poked it around his plate, taking long seconds to stab the tiny pieces. While praying to all the gods and saints in Heaven that the topic will peter out there. “Thank you! The secret really is in the temperat…”

The voices faded in the background of his shallow breathing. Staring at his fork, John swallowed a ball of dry fish with a mixture of feelings he hadn’t felt for years. ‘Am I ashamed of the truth?! I thought I was beyond that.. Out and proud! What would Sherlock say when I tell him? No, he understands my reasons.. But he would never lie like that.. My God, it’s like muscle memory.’ 

The small talk continued, dishes coming in and out, dessert, aww that’s lovely, isn’t the weather just gorgeous, coffee, no thank you, how is your sister, very well thank you, brandy? ‘I, John Hamish Watson, in love with the bravest and kindest, and wisest man on this Earth; father of a smart, gorgeous, sweet little girl; respected and liked by cherished friends and colleagues; here I am, lying at dinner to these strangers, because…Because why?! Because…’ and a sigh escaped his parted lips. 

“Are you ok, John?” asked the hostess.

“Well, frankly, your salmon is a parched disaster; never buy this wine again because it’s flatter than a corpse’s EKG; too much cinnamon in the apple pie. Also, I do not agree with your stance on the refugee crisis and I’m all in for musicals at ENO. Lastly, I am a bisexual man in love with another man; no, we are not married; yes, he travels with me often. Together we take care of my daughter, Hamish, who is a healthy and happy child. I went through a lot to arrive here, but I am loved like I never believed I could be loved, by a man whom I love more than life itself, and I couldn’t care less about your judgement or discomfort with my life choices. The brandy was pretty damn good. Have a great night!” 

Life isn’t fiction, though, so John kept his thoughts to himself: “Apologies. I had a really long day at the office..” and his heart skipped a beat again.


	11. Imagine Me and You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pre-relationship. John sits opposite Sherlock at the table and wishes with all his heart his desires are not noticed.

John looked out the window onto the street, hiding his sigh within a slow, deliberate breath. The torture of sitting opposite Sherlock and pretending to be blogging had choked him almost to tears. He had been stealing glances at Sherlock’s gorgeous face all morning: the cool, smooth china of his skin; the blue vitrage eyes under wings of coal lashes; the sharp Cupid bow of his upper lip quivering every now and then while he read the paper; the soft cursed curls daring to caress his forehead. If John could only stretch out his hand and live through the rapture of tracing his love on Sherlock’s face with his fingertips, he would pass out inside the swell of his bleeding heart.

Blinking with effort, John stared at a man crossing to the corner store. He knew that if he made any excess gestures Sherlock would be aware of his struggle, so he kept himself still. A sandstone pillar obliterated speck by speck by his unspoken desires. His unseeing eyes were focused inward onto a scene he had recreated in his mind so many times it had become a real memory: he takes Sherlock’s chin and kisses him with all the tenderness he savored throughout the years. Their eyes meet and the encouragement within them makes John cry as he buries his face in Sherlock’s fragrant curls and inhales the heaven within. They interlace fingers and their knuckles turn white as their kisses grow harder. With a wide stroke Sherlock pushes plates, cups, newspaper, computer to the floor and hurls John on the table, peeling his shirt off his marble chest without bothering to unbutton it, still kissing John with a heavy breath. 

John unknowingly bit his lower lip so hard that he perforated it. A skinny brook of blood trickled down his chin. Suddenly he became aware of the silence that had surrounded him and like a reflex he couldn’t control, looked back at Sherlock. The newspaper had been folded over for God knows how long and Sherlock was gazing at him with all the insight that John was trying to avoid. Worse, there was a rhetorical question in the sadness of seeing his best friend in pain, and even an apology that John hated luring out. He was a transparent plastic sheet that Sherlock saw through without an inkling of an effort. The weight of this realization and the shame of its repetitiveness knocked the wind out of John’s chest. He slowly rose up, put on his coat and left the flat to find his breath.


	12. Getting Caught In the Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock hates wet clothes. So he takes them off.

Sherlock got caught in the downpour just a block away from Baker Street. He stumbled in, his hair lovingly wrapping his face like seaweed. He tossed the umbrella in the corner. Sherlock hated the cold embrace of wet clothes and struggled to peel them off with his frozen fingers. While tugging at the sleeves of his coat like an angry child, his annoyance grew in a rapid crescendo to a climax of annihilation. By the time he reached the flat’s landing, Sherlock’s shirt was torn and thrown down the stairs; his scarf, caught in his belt, was trailing behind him; and his pants were clasping his knees as he was jumping on one foot taking off shoes and socks at the same time. 

“Good God!” he exclaimed, and in a final victorious flourish, took off his underwear. With only his watch on, freed from all restriction, Sherlock smiled, satisfied. Then his eye caught motion by the fireplace. John and Mrs. Hudson were sitting opposite each other, drinking tea from their favorite tea set. 

John sighed, “Please, accept our apologies, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Oh, don’t worry dear, I’ve seen a penis before” said the grand old dame and sipped. 

“Good.. Shower then..” Sherlock murmured and sheepishly sneaked towards the bathroom.


	13. The Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wakes up in the darkness. He married Mary.

John woke up in cold sweat, clutching his chest. He stared the darkness, breathing heavily and reached for Sherlock.

He was not there.

His mind still cloudy, John thought of the scene he had just seen: it was his wedding day, bright and sunny. People, children, the photographer and someone throwing petals at him. Greg patting him on the shoulder. John was petrified in cold sweat, standing smiling next to Mary. He had said “yes” to Mary. Even though he was married to Sherlock already…

Where could Sherlock be? He seem to remember they went to bed together. Sherlock was sleeping naked, as usual; they had read a bit before falling asleep..John squinted, trying to see the outlines of their bedroom at Baker Street.

Was that the bathroom door in front of the bed?! Where he and Ma..

“No, of course not! It cannot be! I married Sherlock, there were his parents! And Mycroft ate half the cake!..And, and Greg danced with Molly, I thought there was something between them!.. and our first dance! It wasn’t a dream! It wasn’t..a dream?..” John shook his head and turned on the light.

He was at Baker Street. “John?”

Sherlock appeared at the door with a cucumber sandwich in his hand. “Did I wake you up?” he said, dusting the floor with crumbs. John hurled himself at him and wrapped his trembling arms around his slender frame.

“Yes, thank God!”


	14. Worries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hamish is nineteen and gone out. John is worried, Sherlock tries to comfort him. After a tumblr prompt "snoring Sherlock" by my-mind-palace-blog

“For the love of God, John, stop tossing about the bed! Hamish is nineteen, and she knows very well how to comport herself at parties! Also, you keep pulling the blanket towards you!” Sherlock tugged on the cover. 

John sighed: “Yes, yes, I know! But..she’s my little girl..There would be alcohol and boys..”

“..we don’t even know if she’s only into boys, John! Your argument is ridiculous!” 

Although the lights were out, John was still sitting upright with his book in hand, his brow furrowed, his mind producing disturbing movies. Sherlock felt his agitation and said softly: “Really, it’s ok, my dear. You must trust Hamish more. We brought her up…right…I think. At least, very well.”

“It’s not her I worry about, it’s the circumstances! The hour, the alcohol…Who can say what can…”

His last words were muffled by Sherlock’s smooth shoulder against him, his warm hug wrapping John with tight comfort. “All will be well” Sherlock whispered. They slid down holding each other, their heartbeats equalizing. It wasn’t long before John heard it.

The tiny little snore escaping Sherlock’s mouth. He often slept with his mouth open, exhaling through his nose, where a short flute played an out of tune note. How many years now had John heard that rhythmic tone almost every night? Sherlock usually passed out with the speed of light, leaving him to listen to the faint snore, and to drift off thanking his lucky star that he shared the life and bed of Sherlock Holmes. John smiled, as the familiar fog slowly took his senses away…


	15. Can't Fall Asleep...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tiny vignette about what love makes Sherlock do for his John.

“Sherlock?”

“Mhhhmmrgh…?”

“I can’t fall asleep.”

“Mrh.”

“Would you…maybe…do that thing you know makes me fall asleep really fast?..I..I know it’s late…”

“Mrhghr?! Mhr?!”

“..now would be best, yes…but I can understand if..”

Sherlock threw his legs over and his heels slapped the floor. He unfolded slowly, then shuffled towards the door, tracing the wall for support. A second later he had the lamp in the kitchen turned on. By the time he put away the dishes and finished washing the load from dinner It dawned on him that he must really be in love if he was up at this hour, imitating the sounds John’s parents used to make after he had gone to bed as a child, just so his boyfriend could fall asleep like he used to.


	16. Running Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hamish has ran away from preschool and straight into Sherlock, who tries to speak his mind into hers.

Hamish walked briskly down the street, her cheeks flushed with anger. She wasn’t sure if Jess was still behind her, nor did she care; she could only think of getting to Sherlock and telling him everything. Her dad was at the clinic and only Sherlock could understand her and set things right. 

Several people slowed down to look at what appeared to be a six-year-old rushing by without adult supervision, but something in her resolute gait or maybe it was her pointed stare that gently nudged them to keep walking: she obviously knew what she was doing. 

“Who could it be?!” thought Mrs. Hudson as she opened the door for the madman outside. A goblin sneaked by her and flew up the stairs. A door slammed open.

“Hamish? What are you doing here?” Sherlock stumbled from his mind palace, unlaced his fingers and sat up. 

“I was first! Jess and I were first at the door, but…but…Miss Smith put that cow Katherine in front instead!! She saw us there!! It’s not fair!! We were first!!” Hamish’s words grew in frustration, tears shining in her eyes - tears she wouldn’t let roll down. 

“So, you ran away from preschool?” 

Hamish, defiant, righteous, stood in front of him. “I did! And Jess came, too! Because she was with…But I lost her…I was rushing to come here!! You know it’s not fair, Sherlock!! You can tell that to Miss Smith!! Right? I don’t ever want to go back! They are not fair!” 

Sherlock found himself in a dilemma. His instinct was to reward her - she had stood her ground and defended the truth, yet she was taken out because Katherine was the daughter of someone important, probably someone Miss Smith had to be nice to, maybe her divorce layer? Maybe the sponsor for one of their events? Maybe…Wait! No! No deductions about that right now! Sherlock tilted his head and looked at the fiery elf. He suppressed a smile. So much of John in her. And of Mary, too…There were rules at preschool, though, and for the betterment of society, whatever that meant, and whatever the private circumstances, these rules are to be followed. One must do what the teacher says. Also, one does not leave school without permission and without a relative. That’s what John would probably say, Sherlock thought with certain sadness. After all, adults are able to choose how they behave with others, but children must learn what anarchy is before indulging in it.

“You are right, little bee. You have all the reasons to rebel and call out this injustice, and I understand your decision to take radical action to show Miss Smith that you believe in your claim.” he took a breath, in which the battle between his convictions and his commitment to John and Hamish was fought in an instant, “But running away from her to punish her and to bring the calvary is not the best way to handle the issue.” 

Hamish wrinkled her brow. “But!…”

“Miss Smith must be really worried about you and she probably feels bad about lying to you and provoking your escape. You must go back and you should apologize to her for running away.” Sherlock took her warm little hand, engulfing it inside his palms.

“But!! It’s not fair!..She knew we were first…Sherlock?”

“Yes, Hamish. The world isn’t fair. People aren’t fair. Situations aren’t fair. Life is definitely not fair. Yet, we must persist and face it with as much strength as we have, and act on our convictions once we know what the word means and what it encompasses. You must go back, and face her, and apologize for running away, and promise her that you won’t do it again. Not to mention it’s dangerous for a six-year-old to be traversing the streets of London alone.”

“It’s just a block…”

“Nevertheless. Promise me first that you won’t do it again, so I won’t have to contact uncle Greg with your pictures and measurements…And so that your father won’t worry to death.”

Hamish stared at her kitty-shoes. “I promise.” she mumbled. Sherlock caressed her chin and looked her in the big blue eyes.

“Remember, never apologize for saying what you believe is the truth. Do not apologize to Miss Smith about claiming you were first, even if she tries to make you do so in order to keep the stories straight. That is your integrity to uphold. But you must apologize for breaking the school’s rules.”

Hamish nodded. She understood little less than a quarter from what Sherlock had just said about claim, and integrity, and conviction, and radical. Radishes? Eww!… But she felt calm. She had shared her story, and Sherlock had listened and told her she was right. And she could live with giving an apology, even though in her heart she believed she was not guilty. 

“Come, I’ll walk you back, it would be time to pick you up soon anyway. Might just wait for you outside. And then we can go and get ice-cream. God knows we’ll need it before we have to retell this tale to dad..” 

“Strawberry?”

“Strawberry.”


	17. I Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John observes Sherlock right before their wedding ceremony; a tiny vignette.

“And no crying.”

“No crying. Do you think we can manage it?..”

“I sure hope so, for your sake. You’re a funny crier.”

“Thank you for that, Sherlock..”

John licked his lips and adjusted the silver tie. He looked at the mirror. Behind him, with a stoic expression, Sherlock was fighting with the knot. His fingers were trembling so subtly that John mostly felt them rather than having observed their nervous motions. There he was, the best and the wisest man he had ever known, about to become his only man. Scared shitless about a public ceremony. John knew oh-so-well Sherlock’s sentiments about marriage, and his agreement to hold a wedding in a small circle was probably the most generous gift he had ever received from his partner. His gorgeous, smart, showoff of a partner in crime. Solving. That is. About to become his husband. John took a deep breath and blinked away the moisture in his eyes. 

“I’m ready for this circus. Take me to the cheering crowds.”

“God almighty, can you be more of a drama queen?!” 

By the time they had reached the priest and had turned to face each other, both couldn’t see shit from the tears crawling down their cheeks.


	18. Babysitting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hamish and Sherlock spend their first half an hour by themselves.

“Sherlock? How did everything go?” John said as he entered the flat. It was the first time he had left Sherlock alone with Hamish since they moved in a month ago. So far had been able to find babysitters last minute, or drop her off at Mrs. Hudson’s or at the morgue with Molly if he had to run the occasional errand or finish work late. Today all the usual suspects were busy and he had realized this would be it - the trial by fire for Sherlock and the promise he made to him on his…his wedding night to Mary. 

“Only half an hour Sherlock. I’ll be back before you know it, and she’ll probably be asleep by then anyway. Just put her in the rocking chair in ten minutes. I just changed her, and she shouldn’t be…umm..pooping soon. ..You think you guys are going to be alright?”

Sherlock had scoffed and kept reading the paper. “It’s a baby, John, not the large hadron collider. Off you go.” 

And now John found him seated in his armchair, his curls spilling around his face, which he held hidden behind his hands. Hamish was lying on the couch, crying all the way to the Tower of London, her diaper half undone. Sherlock lifted his eyes and stared at John. 

“….are…are you crying, Sherlock?..What?…”

“For the love of God, how do you deal with the smell?! It’s uncontrollable, impossible! Such a small child, and such a….” He sniffled. 

John tried to conceal his chuckle, but before he knew it, he was laughing so hard even Hamish stopped wailing and peeked at him. He picked up a clean diaper and changed her swiftly. 

“There is a first time for everything, Sherlock. You’ll get used to it.”

Sherlock looked at him and exuberant pain marked his brow. 

“Thank you for being here for her today. It means a lot to me.” 

The pain slowly dissipated, and a thin smile colored his eyes’ corners. “You are welcome. I stand by my word.” Inside him, somewhere deep and damp he felt a seed of warmth glowing faintly. He chose to ignore it. For now.


	19. Sherrinford, Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherrinford Holmes returns to London and the ghosts of his past.  
> Part One of a Sherrinford Holmes character study/introduction into headcanon. Five years after His Last Vow, AU

“Sherlock, there are plenty of bills for you to check, young man!” Mrs. Hudson's voice faded downstairs. 

Sherlock took the mail and sat back in his chair. A white envelope caught his eye immediately, only two initials by the upper right corner. He tore it with a mixture of lukewarm curiosity and a pinch of revulsion. Mycroft really should stick to texting.

“I thought you’d find the news intriguing, brother mine. The East wind has stirred. MH” 

Sherlock unfolded the magazine page. Obviously torn out with a single gesture, revealing urgency and strong intent.

“Leaving The New Yorker after ten successful years at its helm, writer Sherrinford Holmes returns to his native London to join the editorial team at 1843. See our next issue for the full interview, in which he discusses his very private divorce from husband and New York City Ballet principal Jeremy Hobbs, the New York Years and his upcoming project with composer Emma Still. This week he answers the infamous Proust Questionnaire for us:

What is your idea of perfect happiness? Reading at the beach.  
What is your greatest fear? Being helpless.  
What is the trait you most deplore in yourself? I have a hard time letting go of the past.  
What is the trait you most deplore in others? Indecision.  
Which living person do you most admire? Mothers.  
What is your greatest extravagance? Achieving the freedom to speak my mind and to have choices.  
What is your current state of mind? Searching.  
What do you consider the most overrated virtue? Piety.  
On what occasion do you lie? On the occasion of everyday life.  
What do you most dislike about your appearance? No.  
Which living person do you most despise? Anyone who brings suffering to others.  
What is the quality you most like in a man? Qualities don’t have gender.  
What is the quality you most like in a woman? Qualities don’t have gender.  
Which words or phrases do you most overuse? No.  
What or who is the greatest love of your life? Next question.  
When and where were you happiest? It’s been a while. Some years ago I was really happy in London…  
Which talent would you most like to have? I’d like to cook better.  
If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be? I wish I could trust more. Again.  
What do you consider your greatest achievement? Learning to live with myself.  
If you were to die and come back as a person or a thing, what would it be? Probably an Irish setter.  
Where would you most like to live? Iceland. Year-round. I bought a house in Hof recently.  
What is your most treasured possession? My memories.  
What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery? Helplessness.  
What is your favorite occupation? Baker.  
What is your most marked characteristic? A sense of humor most people do not understand.  
What do you most value in your friends? Loyalty.  
Who are your favorite writers? Oh, it’s impossible to even begin. Kundera, Kafka, Bukowski, O’Henry. God, Fitzgerald with the right drink. Truly, unanswerable.  
Who is your hero of fiction? Pippi Longstocking.  
Which historical figure do you most identify with? I guess it would tickle Proust if I say Proust. Therefore, Proust.  
Who are your heroes in real life? People who have the courage to challenge their comfort zone.  
What are your favorite names? Darling.  
What is it that you most dislike? Confident ignorance.  
What is your greatest regret? Leaving the people I love at a moment of great personal crisis.  
How would you like to die? Suddenly.  
What is your motto? To define is to limit. 

Sherlock crumpled the page and threw it in the fire. An hour later Mrs. Hudson strolled back from the store with some biscuits, and found him frozen by the fire, his eyes unseeing right through her.


	20. Sherrinford, Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherrinford Holmes returns to London and the ghosts of his past. Set about two weeks after Sherrinford, Part One.  
> Part Two of a Sherrinford Holmes character study/introduction into headcanon. Five years after His Last Vow, AU

"Perhaps since I convinced the reading public that an unprincipled drug addict was some kind of gentleman hero.

…Yes, now you come to mention it, that was quite impressive."

 

Why, why, why do people need to create a lore about someone else?! What kind of twisted pleasure comes from admiring that complete work of fiction, so divorced from reality that any deduction made about it is useless rubbish?! Sherlock got up and paced to the kitchen and back several times, occasionally stepping on his bedsheet. Even John wants me to be some hero, a brave and wise man, a best friend, a brilliant detective, well, that part is obviously true, also the hopeless drug addict that he must take care of, and all for what? God, it’s so dull! All the pretense, the manners, I’m exhausted! Can’t he not see that I’m just.. not that. He must know, he is smarter than he looks, after all. John can understand that I don’t love, I simply don’t! Only losers do! What does he expect me to do! 

Sherlock fell into his chair with a thump and brought his knees up. And now he shows up here with a baby, of all things! A tiny set of intestines, full of cries and shit! He wants me to help! Help him! With a baby! He scoffed at the diaper bag that John had prominently dropped in the middle of the room. Diapers! Theeters! Jingly toys! A bloody swing! Sherlock stood up, angrily slipping out of his sheet. He would kill again for a cigarette, without hesitation, right now. 

The stairs squeaked underneath a stranger’s feet, catching Sherlock off his guard. Usually he could have told who was entering the building by the way they knocked, but the baby issue had overtaken his brain. Sentiments!! The death of observation and reason! To hell, whoever it was - showing up unannounced! He quickly grabbed his sheet and turned. 

“We are not seeing clients today, so I would kindly ask you to…”

“Hello, Sherlock, little brother. It has been a while… 

Sherrinford stood at the door, in an American black suit, arms crossed, measuring the room.


	21. Sherrinford, Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherrinford Holmes returns to London and the ghosts of his past. Set about two weeks after Sherrinford, Part One.  
> Part Three of a Sherrinford Holmes character study/introduction into headcanon. Five years after His Last Vow, AU

“Why are you here?” squinted Sherlock. 

“Is this the proper way to greet your oldest brother?” Sherrinford slowly entered the flat, shrinking it with his wide gait. “I’ve been away for fifteen years and now - why are you here? That’s all you’ve got?” His gray eyes, heavy as a stingray, slowly sank into Sherlock’s. “Anyhow, you’ve already seen all you needed to make a proper deduction about the reasons I’m here. So the real question is.. do you really think you can handle it?” 

“Handle what?!” The detective sat in his chair and began fiddling with the creases of his sheet. “You should have taken a cab, the tube is unbearable at this time of day, as you know. Also, I can’t believe you stayed with this cheating husband of yours for so long. Let’s see..the conductor, yes, the conductor. Obviously. And this woman..the composer..Emily? Emma! Ah, the apple of discourse. Couldn’t really decide on a muse…”

“Enough. I will not follow you down this path. I know you’ll agree to help John with the baby.” Sherrinford sat across Sherlock, prompting him to look right at him. Sherrinford, the kind soul, the artist, the writer, the runaway. The sufferer. Sherrinford with the tender smile and the caring heart. 

“You don’t know anything about me!” Sherlock hissed. Then immediately wished he could take it back.

“I know you’ll agree to help John. Which means helping him with Hamish.” Sandalwood and crips shirts. Shaved his head this morning. Hasn’t passed by mum and dad before coming here. Smoked once, this morning. For the first time in a while. Gitanes. Sherlock’s mind kept racing around the trivialities. “And as you know, I came back for her. She might come to love you, as John did, but they don’t know you like I do. I know what you do to people who love you.”

“You do not know me!!” 

“Sherlock? Is everything OK?” John’s concern overcame Sherlock like a comforting triple homicide case.


	22. I Miss You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock goes on a case, leaving John and young Hamish in London.

John let the book fall on his chest and took off his glasses. Almost midnight, silent and cold, occasional siren hurling obscenities outside. Everything around him seemed smaller, unreal, yet there was so much pragmatic air in the flat that it suffocated him. So much aiir where Sherlock should be. 

Now, John didn’t consider himself the sentimental kind, although he obviously regarded sentiment higher than his partner did. But his heart beat loneliness inside his veins, and made him do ridiculous things like inhaling Sherlock’s pillow for a trace of his cologne, wearing his dressing gown, and reordering his socks drawer despite the index. He held it together well at dinner with Hamish, but when he tucked her in, he missed hearing Sherlock clinking with the test tubes downstairs. Burning the carpet. Knocking down the fire alarm, cursing like a sailor. John missed him to the point of tears, even though this was not the first time Sherlock was away, chasing this villain or that ghost. 

His body ached, too, to be touched, gripped, bitten. A hole in his stomach, a fever that spun his head, a film of sweaty desire at the back of his neck. John bookmarked his page and turned off the light, the taste of Sherlock’s lips upon his. Unsurprisingly, it wasn’t a long wank. 

His phone lit up, and John leaped at it. 3.30 am. “I miss you. Coming back early. Dinner tomorrow?”


	23. Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Etude on setting a scene

John looked up from his laptop. It was a late Saturday afternoon, rich copper light gilding the walls in intricate lace leaves. Through the air, humming with stillness, the delicate smell of Mrs. Hudson’s biscuits encircled his wrists. Still in his dressing gown, Sherlock had dozed off on the sofa with the weekend papers for a blanket; on the table was a cup of tea, seduced, then abandoned. Sherlock’s rhythmic breath drew in a shiny curl close to his lips, then playfully pushed it away, in a pendulum that ultimately created complete inaction. A child’s laughter spewed daisies underneath their windows. John guarded his inhale with indecent gloat, lest he destroy this afternoon symphony’s mellow Adagio. A wave of tenderness, deep and thick, welled inside him, the taste of bitter herbs and sugar on his tongue. 

“I love you, too.” almost inaudibly whispered Sherlock, transforming John into a pile of wet love letters.


	24. Sticky

“I love you, Sherlock!..” John whispered into the darkness. A lazy breeze rolled down from the open window and licked the sweat on his naked body, retracing the kisses that Sherlock had bestowed on it. Their intertwined bodies glowed faintly against the gray sheets. “I love you, too, Doctor.” Sherlock caressed absentmindedly the soft skin underneath John’s arm, sending shivers down his spine. Tired and sleepy, they had silently agreed to remain glued together until their morning shower. And now Sherlock was already far away, his slender, twitching torso bewitching John, exciting his senses like a pleasant dream. Somewhere in the alleys, the shouts of a drunk man mingled with the sticky-sweet blossoms of linden trees and condensate on the sleeping pair.

 

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters and they are not my intellectual property. There is no financial gain made from this nor will any be sought. This is for entertainment purposes only.


	25. Autumn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Femlock

John twitched and woke herself up. Warm sandalwood scent greeted her. “Dang it! We forgot the blow out the candles! We could have burned the place down!…” She glanced at Sherlock, sound asleep next to her, black hair like a river of shiny secrets draping over the bee patterned pillow. An unstoppable wave of love washed over John, but she didn’t have the heart to wake up her spouse. It was barely eleven, with daylight savings it felt much later. At eight they had already retired to the bedroom with tea and candles, ready to read into falling asleep. Sherlock’s face lied hidden underneath “The Spice Bible”, her white hand still touching its spine, her steady breath quieting the room. John felt a tiny draft creeping around them. Probably the lower left windowpane that needed new caulking, she thought, pulling the quilt higher on her chest. Sherlock’s icicles of feet had finally warmed up and her soft toes were barging in Johns territory. She loved the way the colder weather brought them even closer together, Sherlock and her, cuddling like two cats in the flat for long hours. Endless silences and embraces, some cooking and lots of tea and love. Mycroft had repeatedly expressed her disgust for her sister’s newly found domesticity, but her snide remarks slid off the happy couple like water off a shower curtain.

John rubbed her hands together, blew out the candles and sneaked again underneath the covers, wrapping her hand over Sherlock’s warm waist. “You know…sometimes you creep me out when you stare at me while I sleep…” Sherlock muttered, while fumbling The Spice Bible onto her nightstand. “But I love you regard..less…”


	26. It Rains At The Seaside, Too

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Femlock

Sherlock hadn’t noticed the rain until a gust of wind slapped it across the windowpane. She slowly sipped her hot cocoa, her eyes grazing the wet dunes, the tall grasses beating the sand before the charcoal waves, the seagull’s winding landing. From the warmth of the room, feet buried in a blanket, John’s clanking in the kitchen, searching for God knows what, Sherlock felt herself in the calm eye of the storm raging around them.

 

“You know I hate the seaside, John! The sand everywhere, tourists.. also, it smells like rotten algae!” she had grumbled on the train ride, her fingers racing at her phone. “Trust me, my love, you just might enjoy this. I have a feeling you will.” John had softly replied.

 

They made love on the thinning rug, on the deep sofa. They took long walks on the abandoned beach flanking their cottage. They ate Ramen and finished the crossword. Since this morning the sky had been pregnant with the storm of the afternoon, the air hanging low with sweet moisture. John picked a fistful of sea shells, now sleeping in the pockets of her jacket. She brought a long piece of driftwood in, “for the living room”, and as much as she wanted to condescend to it, Sherlock only felt her lips spreading into a smile instead. A smile, whose warm roots wrapped around her heart. She wore rain boots, enjoying the queer feeling of her dry feet, surrounded by twirling water. The wind tied knots in her curls. John took pictures. “Who knew I’d actually?…” A small crab ran past them.

 

“There! I knew I had seen one!” John emerged victorious with an empty jar. She dropped the shells in it, and turned it to admire them again, gleaming like a child. “Not half bad.” Sherlock said and spread her arms wide in an invitation.

 

The rain tap danced on the roof till midnight.


	27. The Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pre-season 4

John sat on the steps outside 221b Baker Street and lit a cigarette. He took a long drag and followed the blue smoke circle up from his parted lips. Sherlock stood up beside him, hand in his pockets, his eyes lost upon John, upon the street and the passing cars, upon Mrs. Hudson’s bright windows.

“You know, when you asked me for one, I thought you were joking… I didn’t know you smoke..” Sherlock muttered through his half-smirk. 

“I’m not really a smoker. Occasionally though, the weather calls for it.” John kept looking straight ahead, but whenever he could, he stole a glance at the detective.

The hot summer night was fragrant with the piss and the trash, and the restaurant food stench of London. Sherlock extended his hand and John placed the cigarette between his parted fingers. 

“Thank you for sharing your last one, Sherlock. It is more delicious than I remember…”

“Because it’s not the crap they sell everywhere.” 

The two men spoke of trivial little things and of grand ideas, passing the cigarette back and forth. Once it was done, they promptly forgot about it and kept on breathing life into their conversation late into this strange summer night. The clocks stroke two, as the walls between them thinned to gauze, penetrated by prodding questions, casually slipped emotions, and half-spoken desires. Sherlock heard in John’s voice the tentative invitation of their first dinner at Angelo’s and carefully sent an affirmation back. John caught it gently, concealing his shout of relief and hope. The streetlamp’s shadow painted thick masks on their faces, through which they finally spoke as the two emotionally unstable men they knew each other to be.

“So long I have known you, John, yet I keep finding out things about you that surprise me. That…delight me.” Sherlock stared at his shoes and stepped back into the shadow, feeling the horror of blushing on his face. 

“That is a good thing, I believe. It bodes well. I always suspected that heart of yours.. wasn’t only concerned with work..” John smiled. “It’s getting late, maybe we should try and go to bed like real adults.” He got up on the first step, now equal in height to his partner, and dusted his jeans.

“Real adults are boring.” Sherlock whispered unconvincingly. He could smell the tobacco on John’s breath, brushing his face. A faint gasp escaped him when John’s lips touched his. Warmth spread between them as they kissed, Sherlock’s fingers closed around John’s arm, trembling uncontrollably. The doctor pulled his detective closer yet, kissing him still as gently and softly as he could restrain himself to be. It had been a long time coming. So time stood still for them.


	28. The Kiss, encore une fois

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The kiss that could have been. The greatest love story never told.

“You said you considered yourself married to your job!”

“That is true! Was true.. I considered myself married to my job.” 

“What was I supposed to do?! I had just met you! Was I supposed to, what, go ahead and disrespect your will, just because I liked you?!”

“Yes, maybe?. Yes. No. I don’t know! I thought I wasn’t ready for.. for that thing.”

“What thing?!”

“That thing!!! Oh, you know what thing!! The sentiment, the feeling! The weakness! Boyfriend cooking me supper!”

“Oh, yeah? Did it ever pass your idiotic brain that I might not have been ready either?! That I was just trying to let you know I was…available?! Interested?! And then you go and say “..while I’m flattered..”

“I know what I said! Enough! You don’t understand!”

“I don’t understand?! I DON’T UNDERSTAND?! Now, that’s grand! From the moment I laid eyes on you my life changed! And you said, you know what - I’m not interested in you, John Watson, nice of a bloke as you are! So I listened, I respected you, while my heart broke in a thousand pieces every time I wanted to… Every time I wanted… God!! Forget it. Just forget it! I’m leaving!”

“John! No.”

“No what?!”

“Don’t go.” 

“Give me a goddamn reason not to!!!” 

Sherlock stepped forward and grabbed John’s face. His kiss nearly knocked the wind out of the doctor, more of a bite than a kiss, a desperate, stifled for so long, insane kiss, painful, hurt, ignored, tortured kiss, smelling of the leather gloves Sherlock still wore, tasting of salt and frustration kiss, of tears and waiting, of water and ice, like the cold January ocean. John locked his hands behind Sherlock’s waste and returned the bite until his lips hurt. Their lips haunted each other until the kettle sounded and through it, until the smell of burning metal triggered the fire alarms. They kissed while the sprinklers poured and poured, drenching them and flooding the flat. They kissed while Mrs. Hudson ran around in dismay and joy, tossing the kettle in the sink with a loud bang. They kissed for so long, almost as long as they had been in love with each other.


End file.
